


Hold my hand at a funeral

by pipelliot



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Funerals, Grief, M/M, Merlin/Gwen friendship is my favourite, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 23:59:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipelliot/pseuds/pipelliot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin's attending another funeral and Arthur can't be there with him just yet. In the meantime, Merlin gets a bit antsy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold my hand at a funeral

**Author's Note:**

> Shamefully self-indulgent but er. Something more or less scribbled down that's been stuck in my head for a while. Forgive me. Unbetad.

It’s not—Merlin doesn’t suppose it’s selfish, exactly. Nonsensical, perhaps. But not selfish.

There’s a distinctly shaped hole in the ground and everyone is in their finest, dreariest suits. 

Gwen isn’t crying. Merlin can’t see her face, but he knows she isn’t crying. The marble headstone reads _Thomas ‘Tom’ Smith_ and Gwen truly is a little bit remarkable, but Merlin knew that already. Lancelot stands firmly to her right, arm wrapped securely around her waist. Not suffocatingly so, just there, just an _I’m here, if you need me._

Merlin adores Gwen but he hardly knew Tom. Whenever Merlin had called around to Gwen’s to play (or indeed, when they both blossomed a bit, to _hang out_ ) Tom was hardly ever there, working always as he was since Elyan and Gwen’s mother were never around. But of what Merlin got to know of him he was a lovely man who loved his daughter and did his very best, and judging by Guinevere today, that’s good enough for Merlin.

Still, Merlin had had a quiet moment with Gwen earlier that morning; there had been hugs and some tears and horrendous jokes because that’s what Merlin does. And then Merlin had tucked a daffodil into her curls because everything seemed just a bit too dark and it caused the first genuine smile he’s spotted from Gwen for days. And that was that—Merlin stepped back, then, let Lancelot hold her hand because that’s what she wanted, Merlin knew, and that was for the best.

The thing is though, is that now Merlin’s own hands won’t stop shaking. Clamming and sweating in the exceedingly cold temperatures, fidgeting and fumbling because he’s just so darn _unsettled_. Because there’s sad eyes and sniffling and grief _everywhere_ and Merlin always had had a habit of taking everything in around him and feeling it all tenfold, even if it hardly applied to him at all. He’s so suddenly restless and full of not-nice thoughts (as one tends to have when surrounded by graves and blatant sorrow) and feels so incredibly lonely and uncomfortable right now that he thinks he just might cry. It’s ridiculous.

Gwen is speaking now. Her eyes are unmistakably red but she stands tall and proud and doesn’t stutter over a single word. Her fist is trembling where it latches on to Elyan’s fingers, but Merlin doesn’t suppose anyone would notice if they weren’t looking for it.

Merlin thinks that maybe now is where he gets just a little bit selfish. Gwen is being so strong and utterly devastated and all Merlin can focus on are the gaps between his own fingers, the absence of the familiar shock of cold metal against his skin.

Arthur had, of course, nobly volunteered to watch over Gwen and Lance's little Mona and Morgana's little Elliot outside the cemetery gates during the mass. Merlin had thought that would be perfectly fine. But that’s where he gets selfish again too, he supposes.

But then there’s a blessedly familiar hand at the small of Merlin’s back, strong and immediately soothing like they’ve already sensed in those few seconds every trouble Merlin has ever had. Fingertips skitter along Merlin’s waist to finally find Merlin’s fingers, to loop his and Arthur's tightly together. Arthur’s hands are lovely and warm as always, but the tiny shock of cold is entirely, entirely welcome.

Merlin breathes a probably too-large sigh of relief. Everything’s okay again. Everything will be okay. Arthur’s fingers are strong and sure and everything, everything will be fine. Everyone’s eyes will become a little less sad, Merlin is absolutely not alone and everything will be fine.

“Gwaine has ‘em,” Arthur leans in to whisper, a little dumbly, and Merlin almost laughs at the idea that Arthur probably felt like he actually had to tell Merlin that lest Merlin thought he left the kids waddling about alone. Instead, though, he raises Arthur’s knuckles briefly to his mouth. One kiss to the bump of his knuckles, and then to the bones of his fingers. He hopes it’s not too scandalous. With the way Arthur inches closer, he figures it’s probably not.

*

Gwen gives them both equally very long hugs afterwards, with a peck on the cheek each. With a heartfelt “Thanks, boys,” and a slightly wobbly smile, she reaches out for Merlin’s hand briefly for just a moment and then she’s gone, Lancelot’s hold of her waist unwavering.

It happens again, but only for a moment. Merlin gets a bit frightened sometimes. The people he knows and loves get away from him a lot of the time, and so Merlin gets frightened and has a tendency to get rather intensely lonely at the most inopportune times. Especially in cemeteries, it would seem. So he stands for the briefest moment, seems to take in only every lonely grave in the darn place and frankly, suddenly (but not really all that suddenly) he gets just a little bit terrified of the idea of—well. Dying alone.

But that’s okay. Because very soon there is the warmth of a gentle (but no less protective and reassuring) kiss at Merlin’s temple, another against his forehead and a pair of the deepest, loveliest, most wonderfully familiar blue eyes looking ever- earnestly into his own, reading Merlin like a book. As always.

“Come on, sweetheart.”

Arthur takes his hand once more and leads him through the gates. Merlin smiles because he realises rather dumbly that he has a hand to hold at funerals, and supposes that that’s kind of the ultimate. And that’s a little bit of what he supposes he’s been looking for for years, at every single grave he’s had to stand and sob over. He breathes, strokes his thumb over whatever of Arthur’s skin he can, and everything is absolutely, positively okay.

Perfect, even.


End file.
